


hello, my old heart

by rachherself



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Genderbending, Rule 63, lady!amis, please feel free to assume that courferre is a thing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-04
Updated: 2014-06-04
Packaged: 2018-02-03 10:56:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,531
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1742255
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rachherself/pseuds/rachherself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras has a haircut. Grantaire doesn't quite know what to do.</p><p>(lady!amis because I love them, title is the song I'm listening to right now because I'm not creative.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	hello, my old heart

**Author's Note:**

> sparked by some tumblr discussions on lady!amis headcanons.

The minute Grantaire walks into this week’s meeting, she knows she’s fucked. Enjolras, bless her, has _cut off all her hair_ , and then dyed bits of it bright red. That paired with the lipstick she’s currently got on - perfect, like everything else about her - means that Grantaire’s jaw has gone slack and a suspicious warmth is tingling up her spine. She glances over at Bossuet and Joly, who are staring at her and looking concerned, and Grantaire makes a beeline for their table at the back of the room.

“Fuck me, when did Enjolras decide to do, you know, that _thing_? With her _hair_?” Grantaire knows she must look wild right now - she hasn’t combed her hair today and the curls are foaming around her face. She bats it out of the way.

“Um, yesterday I think,” Joly answers, her long-fingered hands fidgeting with the cuff of her jumper. “I think only Ferre and Courf knew about it before she did it.” Bossuet nods, the light in the bar glinting off her scalp. Somewhere in the distance, Enjolras clears her throat, calling the meeting to order. Grantaire doesn’t even hear what she’s saying, because all of her attention is on the way Enjolras’s lips are moving, her hands weaving through the air to illustrate her thoughts.

“All right, R?” Jehan has turned around to face Grantaire, Bossuet and Joly. Her hair is piled on top of her head, a massive pile of strawberry blonde, tied with what looks like five different ribbons. “Enjo’s hair is wild, isn’t it?” Grantaire nods, then scowls. “I don’t - why. Why, Jehan? Couldn’t she have just… not done that? It would have been better for everyone-”

Grantaire is interrupted by Enjolras’s voice, ringing over the crowd of their friends. Grantaire catches Courfeyrac’s eye, who in turn just gives her a toothy grin and giggles at Combeferre.

“Grantaire, please. If you’re going to ignore what I’m trying to say, please show up _after_ the meeting if all you're going to do is socialise.” Enjolras has one perfect eyebrow quirked, a grim set to her mouth. Grantaire smirks, trying to hide the shiver that runs through her when Enjolras speaks directly to her.

“I defer to your authority, Artemis, though we’re talking about your new hairstyle. Rather daring, isn’t it?” Enjolras reaches up towards her head before she catches herself, and a blush dusts her cheeks, making her freckles stand out. “Yes, well,” she says, “it’s just hair. Now, if we could continue?”

Grantaire gestures magnanimously with her hand and settles back into her seat as Enjolras begins talking again, the tips of her ears visibly pink. Grantaire’s eyes connect with Combeferre’s across the room, and a minute later she feels her phone vibrate in the pocket of her jacket. Jehan is looking at her with interest as she pulls out her phone and swipes her thumb across the screen.

**From: Combeferre**  
 _You seem rather interested in Enjolras’s hair, R. Anything you’d like to share?_

Grantaire scowls, composing a reply.

**To: Combeferre**  
 _it’s just. why did u let her do that? have u no compassion for my poor nerves_

**From: Combeferre**  
 _Quoting Pride and Prejudice is an evasion tactic. You like it, don’t you._

**To: Combeferre**  
 _have u and courf secretly switched brains? why are u so interested ferre GOD_

**From: Combeferre**  
 _No reason._

Grantaire looks up at Combeferre, who’s smirking and saying something to Courfeyrac, who then turns and grins predatorily at Grantaire. It’s Courf’s plotting smile, and Grantaire knows that she’s in for a world of trouble. She drops her head on the table, letting out a low moan. A hand, probably Joly’s, rubs her back between her shoulderblades. “It’s okay, R, like Enjolras said, it’s just hair,” a voice says, and Grantaire groans. “It’s _not_ , it’s _sacrilege._ ”

They sit there like that for the remainder of the meeting, and when Enjolras calls the meeting to a close, Grantaire lifts her head up. Combeferre and Courfeyrac are making their way over, and Bahorel has settled herself at the bar, probably sharing the story of the bruise purpling her cheekbone with Musichetta, who’s polishing glasses and looking slightly impressed.

“So, Grantaire,” Combeferre says, bringing Grantaire’s attention to her. She’s dressed in an oversize jumper today, sleeves rolled up to show the tattoos crawling up her arms - scientific illustrations of various types of moths. Grantaire’s very familiar with them, having done one or two of them herself. She eyes Combeferre, who sits there unperturbed, light brown hair loose around her shoulders.

“Yes, Ferre? Are you here to ask me more pointedly intrusive yet vague questions?” Combeferre smiles, a quiet thing that toys with the corner of her mouth. Courfeyrac nudges her shoulder with her forehead. “Tell her, Ferre,” she says, and from Grantaire’s left Jehan makes a noise of assent. Combeferre sighs, pulling her glasses off to polish them.

“All I’m going to say is - yes, _all_ , Courf,” she says as Courfeyrac pouts, “is that Enjolras may have had some… ulterior motive for her change in appearance.”

Courfeyrac nods enthusiastically. “And,” she adds, “it has to do with _you!_ ”

Grantaire clears her throat. “Yeah, um, sure. That’s fucking untrue and you know it.”

“No, no, you should talk to her about it,” Courfeyrac suggests, looking to Combeferre to back her up. Combeferre nods sagely. “You really should,” she says, and Courfeyrac beams at Grantaire.

“Fuck,” is all Grantaire can manage, her voice strangled. Combeferre gives her a comforting pat on the shoulder. Jehan grabs her wrist and slides on a new bracelet, evidently what she was working on during this week’s meeting.

“Good luck,” she says, eyebrows drawing together. “And try not to yell too much. I think we all remember what happened last time you talked to Enjo by yourself.”

Grantaire winces, remembering a few months ago when she tried to talk to Enjolras about making posters for a protest and ended up yelling and then running away, Enjolras’s blue eyes wide and mouth hard.

The small group sits there for a while, sharing a bottle of wine between them. Combeferre wanders back to talk to Enjolras after a little while, and everyone begins to filter out after that. Soon it’s just Enjolras and Grantaire in the bar, and Grantaire watches as Enjolras packs up her various papers from this week’s meeting, stuffing them haphazardly into her leather messenger bag. For someone whose appearance is always nearly perfect, Enjolras is one of the messiest people Grantaire has ever met. She stands up and makes her way to the front of the room, navigating through tables and chairs.

Enjolras only looks up when Grantaire raps her knuckles on the table, self-conscious in her leather jacket and paint-spattered clothes. She’d come right from the studio, which in retrospect was a bad decision. Enjolras straightens her red vest (which matches the streaks in her hair, god _damn_ it) and quirks an eyebrow.

“Yes, R? What’s up?”

Grantaire clears her throat. “I, um. I just want to say I really _do_ like the new ‘do,” she says. She’s leaning on the table for moral support, which is kind of ridiculous, and she’s a strong woman and can talk to the goddess in front of her, goddamnit.

Enjolras, curiously enough, flushes again. “Thanks. I, um. Yeah. It was kind of spur-of-the-moment, really, but I like it.” This time she doesn’t stop herself from running her fingers through the longer part of her hair where it’s still long enough to have a bit of a curl.

“Well,” Grantaire ventures, “Combeferre and Courfeyrac told me that I had something to do with it. And I was just, uh, wondering what that was,” she finishes lamely. She knows her face must be bright red at this point. It feels like she’s standing in a volcano.

Enjolras’s blush deepens as well. “I did it because, uh, I thought you’d like it,” she says, hand at the back of her neck in a way that means she’s embarrassed, and _fuck_ , even this looks good on her. “It was silly, and, um. I didn’t think you’d really care too much. Please don’t listen to me.”

Grantaire’s jaw has gone slack again. “You - for me?” Enjolras just nods, uncharacteristically quiet. Grantaire can’t help herself, and she steps closer to Enjolras, hesitantly taking her hand.

“I really like it. I do,” she says, and Enjolras _finally_ meets her gaze. Her eyes are dark, and she’s close enough now that Grantaire can see clearly the freckles scattered across her cheeks and forehead.

“Good,” Enjolras says, and closes the distance between them. Grantaire’s surprised, but quickly melts into the kiss, hands tangling in the mop of hair on top of Enjolras’s head.

“Wish it was long still, kinda,” she breathes out as they part, and Enjolras’s eyebrows furrow. Grantaire smiles. “Something to hold on to, when we. You know. Or am I reading this wrong?”

Enjolras’s forehead smoothes out as she kisses Grantaire with renewed force. “Not wrong. Yours is closer, let’s fucking _go_ ,” she growls, and Grantaire allows herself to be led out the door.

She finds out later that, yes, even Enjolras’s short hair is _plenty_ to hold on to.

 

**Author's Note:**

> i'm [here](http://grantairricade.tumblr.com) on tumblr, drop me a line


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